


rambling

by lost_onway (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:28:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25308259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lost_onway
Summary: I once wanted something. Dearest, I wanted somethingsobadly.





	rambling

I am tired of life, dearest. I am tired of the noises my house makes when I am alone, and I am tired of myself sitting mindlessly in front of a screen. I am tired of feeling useless and helpless when I am accomplishing nothing, and I am just so tired of being chased by the predator we call time. 

I am tired and bored and sad, and lethargy is slamming all my doors shut. 

My glass doors. My Bell Jar, my well-I-cannot-escape. 

People think I am fine, I know. It _is_ a glass door. They look at me smiling and laughing and making odd jokes, and feel assured that I am normal. I am not _normal_ , dearest. I am a screaming fit, a crying tap, a gaping bloodless cut on my throat. 

There is a difference between the nothingness I feel, and the depression they imagine. No stimulation can get me to feel something meaningful. I see cars, wonder what it will be like to jump in front of one. I see windows, wonder what it will be like to fall. I see everything detached from myself. I see it _wrong_. 

I once wanted something. Dearest, I wanted something _so_ badly. A future. A future where I held all the cards, all the keys to the glass doors. I wanted it too much, I realize now. There was no having it. There was never even a glimmer of hope that I would be able to snatch those keys from the jaws of my life.

But it still hurts to realize. It feels as if the future I wanted slipped through my fingers, and it is all my fault. Maybe if I could pin the blame on something, someone else. But no, it is all my fault, and I must pay the price. 

And dearest, I am unerringly tired of paying the price. Have I done something so wrong? Have I been so selfish, that my future must have been stripped from me? What actions of mine has warranted the cruelty of the unknown?

You will say nothing, I know. So that is while this is all written down, not told, because no one has anything to say to me, and I _know_ that.

I don't think I will live on, dearest. I don't know. Not knowing, at least, is a staple of my life, and maybe I should be thankful for that. 

But I am not. I am not thankful for anything, nothing, everything. 

And I hope you read this in time. 


End file.
